"You have a daughter... really?" Harry's voice wavers, and I can't help the satisfaction bubbling up at having taken him by surprise.

"Yeah, I do. She's back home, studying." I smirk, watching his expression shift—clearly trying to find the right response. I haven't been on a date since Jason, but I've had conversations with men who've shown interest—colleagues, project partners. The moment I mention my daughter, the reaction is always the same: shaky voice, flickering panic, and an invisible retreat.

So I've learned to get it over with early. It usually clears the room.

But this time... it just slipped out. And now I'm curious to see how this boy—man, as Liz would insist—handles it.

Harry straightens in his seat, laying his palms on his thighs like he's bracing for impact. "Oh. Really? How old is she?"

And there it is.

I take a sip of wine, fighting the grin tugging at my lips. "Oh, about your age?"

His eyes widen. The silence stretches for a beat longer than comfortable. Then:

"Do you think she'd mind if I asked her mom out again?" he leans in, eyes locked on mine. "Would I need her permission?"

I can feel heat rising up my legs, coiling through my chest like a current. Oh, you want to play, do you?

"She'd probably love to meet you," I shoot back coolly. "You could bond over video games and playlist preferences."

The initial shock on his face is gone now. He's grinning, cocky and calm, like he's winning a game I didn't know we were playing. He leans closer, as if to share a secret.

"I don't give a damn if you have a daughter my age—which, for the record, I know is a lie. I can read you like a book, Ash." His voice drops, soft and low. "And even if you had a dozen? I'd still..."

He doesn't finish. My breath catches.

"You'd still what?" I ask, trying to keep my voice even. It doesn't work.

His fingers brush my cheek—light, tentative—and for the first time in what feels like forever, something stirs low in my belly. Not grief. Not guilt. Just... feeling.

"Guess you'll find out," he says, pulling back like he didn't just knock the air out of me.

I've lost this round. No doubt. But not the match.

"Her name's Anzette. She's thirteen. Middle school." I clear my throat and sit up straighter, trying to reset the mood. But he's still watching me with that grin, like he's proud of how flustered I've become. Damn him. And his dimples. And that scent. And his mouth. No. No, no, no.

I need to pull it together. Just a little longer. Then I'll never go out with him again.

"Thirteen, huh?" he says, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. "My age, huh? You like to play, Ashley... but guess what? I'll win."

Infuriating. And goddamn sexy.

I wave for the waiter. "Yeah, well—I was just joking. And it's getting late. Big day tomorrow."

But Harry's already looking at his phone, then back at me.

"Niall and Elizabeth just texted. They're waiting at The Nice Guy. Come on, just one drink. I promise I'll behave." He gives me his best pout, and I feel the last threads of resistance snap.

"Fine. One drink. But I'm buying."

"If you even try, I'm quitting the project," he says, completely serious. "Don't you dare insult me like that."

When the waiter brings the bill, I glance toward my clutch, but Harry's already handling it. Swift, quiet, confident. It disarms me more than it should.

"Thanks for dinner," I murmur, still surprised.

"But the drinks," I say with a lift of my brow, "are on me."

He just smiles, and when we step outside into the night air, he casually takes my hand—twining our fingers like it's the most natural thing in the world. I freeze for a half-second.

"Harry..." I glance toward the people around us, the lights, the cameras.

"Just helping you balance. High heels and all," he teases, thumb brushing softly over my skin.

It shouldn't feel electric.

But it does.

"So where exactly are we going?" I ask, fidgeting with my hair to keep my hands busy.

"The Nice Guy," Harry says. "Niall and Liz are already there."

"Who's a nice guy?" I shoot back, playing dumb.

He flashes a crooked grin. "It's the name of the bar."

"I know," I smirk. "I've been there. Great cocktails. Killer playlist. Love the décor."

He glances sideways at me. "You're enjoying my frustration, aren't you?"

"Why would you be frustrated, Harry?"

"You know why." His voice is quiet now, but direct.

"Nope," I lie smoothly, looking out the window.

"Ash... I can't compete with Leo."

That catches me off guard. "There's nothing to compete for," I say, a little too quickly. "Let's just meet the others, yeah?"

He doesn't reply. But his silence says plenty.

When we arrive, he takes my hand again. This time, I don't stop him. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the way he looks at me like he sees more than I want him to. We're ushered inside without a word—celebrity perks—and the place is even better than I remembered. Low lighting. Smooth beats. Velvet booths. And just enough chaos to disappear into.

I spot Liz instantly, perched on a barstool, mid-laugh. She's glowing. Niall's beside her, clearly entertained, and Liam and Louis are there too—plus a blonde I don't recognize. Liz's half-empty bottle of Jack is a bit more concerning.

Harry still hasn't let go of my hand.

"I need the restroom," I say softly, pulling back. He nods, finally releasing me.

Liz follows me, barely walking in a straight line. I brace myself.

"So?" she sings, raising an eyebrow.

"So what?"

"Don't give me that crap, Ashley. You walked in here holding hands. H-o-l-d-i-n-g hands. Spill."

"It was nice," I offer weakly.

"Nice?" she slurs. "Girl. No. Nice is tea with your aunt. This was sexual tension with a side of foreplay."

"Liz, come on," I mumble, rinsing my hands longer than necessary.

"Did he make a move?" she presses.

"He flirted. I shut it down. Kind of."

"You didn't," she groans dramatically.

"I brought up Anzette."

Liz freezes, then groans louder. "Ashley!"

"It just... came up."

"And?"

"He didn't care."

"Of course he didn't care!" she throws her hands up. "Do you know how many women would kill to have that man flirt with them? You had him, all wrapped around you, and you drop the kid card?"

"I panicked, okay?" I admit. "I'm not used to this."

"You deserve to feel good again," she says more softly. "Jason's gone. That's never going to stop being sad. But you're alive, Ash. Let yourself live a little."

I don't answer, but I follow her back.

Harry sees me first. His eyes find me like a magnet, scanning from head to toe in one sweep that sends a tremor through me. I sit beside him—and maybe I lean just a little closer than necessary.

"Bottoms up!" Liam calls, lifting a shot glass. Everyone follows. I hesitate for a beat, then join in.

"Come on, beautiful, drink up!" Louis grins at me like a mischievous schoolboy, and I can't help but laugh.

Three drinks in, the room starts to tilt—just slightly. Music pulses through the floor. Conversation blurs. Harry's hand finds my waist and I freeze.

His touch is firm. Present.

I turn to face him, but whatever I meant to say evaporates under the weight of his gaze. His eyes are darker now, rimmed in red, and locked entirely on me.

"You can run, but you can't hide, Ash," he murmurs, voice thick with something I can't name.

"Harry..." I breathe.

He lifts a finger to my lips. "Shhh. Dance with me."

I should say no. I want to say no.

But I let him lead me.

He pulls me into him, my back against his chest, one hand guiding my hips, the other trailing up my side. His breath ghosts across my shoulder. I feel the heat of him behind me, the slow press of his fingers as we move together. It's slow, steady, and intimate.

Too intimate.

"Come on, Ash... dance with me, baby," he whispers again.

God help me, I do.

Eyes closed, I let myself feel—for a moment—like someone who hasn't spent years shutting parts of herself down. His hands on my body are confident, almost reverent, and his voice, low in my ear, is disarming.

"That's it, baby... God, you're so hot. You have no idea."

I smile, just a little. I don't open my eyes. Not yet.

"Turn around, baby," he whispers, and this time I don't fight the nickname. I turn slowly, opening my eyes to find him already watching me.

"You're beautiful like this," he says, his hands coming up to cradle my face.

"Harry..."

"I want you."

Three words. No shame. No hesitation.

His lips brush mine—just barely. Enough to feel the spark. Enough to ruin me.

My hands find his and pull them gently away.

"Harry... I can't," I whisper. My voice cracks.

A single tear escapes, trailing down my cheek.

And just like that, the music fades.